


Secret Rolling Off My Tongue

by Phia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Pining Sherlock, Poet Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock talks about their kiss all of the time.</p><p>Just not to John himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Rolling Off My Tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1butterfly_grl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1butterfly_grl1/gifts).



“Tonight I can write the saddest lines

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.”

— Pablo Neruda

From _Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair_

* * *

 _he’s got his hand on her waist_  
_and i’ve got my heart in the_  
_rose pinned to my lapel. covered,_  
_it’s dark and_  
_sometimes he makes me wonder_  
_if i’d rather like to die_

John’s got this look on his face that Sherlock can’t understand. Probably has something to do with the amount of drinks they’ve both downed this night. Now they’re stuck in this holding cell and John is mumbling something about coats and babies. There’s something oddly peaceful and wonderful about it. Sherlock sees this as not only the last night, but _the_ night, and the holding cell holds them in, protects him from mental stimulation. He knows what the walls are made of, and he can deduce how many people have been held in here (five hundred to six hundred, he’s not really at the top of his game). John keeps mumbling and the world is spinning above his head and then John isn’t mumbling.

There’s a warm, wet mouth pressed against his.

He doesn’t know whose it is but he assumes it’s John's. John is the only one in the cell with him. He tries to open his eyes but his head hurts from all the possible things he could see, so he doesn't. He’s moving his lips back and then John lets out a little breathy sound and grabs Sherlock’s shoulders from where he’s laid out on the bench. He leans in and their mouths are together and they are together. And the cell is not washed grey. It is burning with colour and splashed with murals of light orange adobe houses dotted against a maya blue and cauliflower white sky. He can’t see, he can’t _see_ , and John’s warm grip feels so good against his shoulders.

John is licking into his mouth and it all is so fast and so fast and he wants more, wants more. His hands, without his mind considering it, untuck John’s shirt from where it is pushed into his trousers. He pulls up John’s jacket and rucks up the shirt and lets his hands trail all over. John is crawling into his lap, his knees on either side of Sherlock’s waist, and how did they manage to make this work?

Sherlock nibbles a little on John’s bottom lip and something happens. John’s kisses slow and become smaller and slower, and then that’s all as his head falls to Sherlock’s left shoulder. He’s draped across Sherlock’s body like a limp rag, and all Sherlock can do is lightly nudge him to the side before falling into the deep pit called sleep.

When sunlight streams through the window and every step outside of the cell sounds to Sherlock like a wrecking ball knocking against a steel building, John doesn’t talk about it. And after the wedding and after the Moriarty threat, he still doesn’t talk about it.

So Sherlock doesn’t talk about it, either. Well, he does.

But not exactly to John.

 

* * *

 

 _and how did it go? that eighteen paged story_  
_that ends with the boy_  
_alone in the woods. alone in the_  
_graveyard alone in the_  
_i am alone i am the one who_  
_wishes you were_  
_dead so you wouldn’t live_  
_so you don’t live with her_  
_so if it isn’t and it is_  
_we are and will never be_

Sherlock walks a little after a case, still a bit jittery from that post-case high which he craves so much. The case was relatively simple, but involved a high speed chase that was fairly difficult. His favourite part was pouncing down on the criminal and pinning him to the wet pavement, still soaked from yesterday’s rainfall, triumph singing in his spine. But now he finds himself aimlessly strolling through the streets, and before he notices it, he’s taking the way to John’s flat.

John and Mary’s flat.

Something strange happens again, kind of like that night in the cell. Nowhere nearly as electrifying, but that shrill scream of panic is still stinging at his bones. He finds himself stopped in the middle of the pavement. People jostle him and curse, but they don’t move him. His left hand is clawing at his coat sleeve, as he pinches the fabric and curls it in his fist and he turns. He’s messed up and twisted and sick. And now he looks stupid for once, the lost man with the wind-tousled curls and the soldier-addled brain twisting on the pavement.

There’s a Blackwell’s across the street, and he vaults.

 _and you were alive, so i_  
_grabbed at your ashen face_  
_with both of my hands. and_  
_you were alive,_  
_we were dying, alive_  
_dying it is all the same,_  
_dying of this all the time,_  
_dying of you all the time._

There are rows of books laid out before him, and a few barely interesting-looking shoppers, but he knows where he needs to go. He finds it quickly. It is a thick, white paged journal with thin grey lines on the inside and a shiny, black hard cover on the outside. He feels the pages and their edges, piercing against the tips of his fingers with an unusual sharpness, as if they are begging for something. As if they were open-mouthed children with stomachs crying out for some sort of consolation. _Maybe these metaphors will finally be put to their well-deserved deaths._ He’s biting at his own lips, and realizes it, and stops.

Sherlock buys the journal. He takes it home and sits it on John’s chair. Then he wonders why he chose that exact spot. He throws his hands up in the air, a silent surrender, and then retires to his bed.

Three in the morning, and he’s suddenly crying. He wakes up from a broken link in a dream, something setting him off saying _this hasn’t happened_ , and he’s awake for a few moments. As cars whiz by on the streets outside and Mrs. Hudson shifts on her chair from when she has fallen asleep reading some sort of sappy novel, Sherlock thinks. Sherlock thinks about John. He thinks about the cell and John’s warm mouth, and his grey blonde hair spread over his shoulder. And then he’s clutching at his chest, and crying, fat, hot tears streaming down his face and reaching the corners of his mouth. He licks them away and cries some more. The force of his sobs makes him arch off of the bed each time before falling back into his rumpled sheets.

His hands fumble and untie the knot of his dressing gown, brushing over his pajama trousers. He trails his hand over his flat stomach before reaching the wound. It is small, but still very much present. He presses against it with two fingers.

This is what John wanted to marry.

He’s crying even more. He fists a hand in his curls and tugs. The hand on his chest is pressing down harder. He lays three fingers over his chest and wound and cries into the cool night air.

He does not love you. He wants you dead, too. He wants you **dead**.

No.

He shoots up from the bed and lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, as his shirt falls to conceal his stomach again. He rises, only to sit on his bed’s edge again. Does he really want to do this? Does he really want to step into this insanity?

Thoughts and words flicker and press themselves against the ends of his eyelids, burn themselves inside of his brain, taking up much needed space. Yes. He - yes, he needs to do this.

He finds a black pen in the kitchen, snatches the journal from John’s untouched chair, and sits in his own. Closing his eyes, he wills his brain to stop for a moment. He peels the cover off of the journal’s first page with his left hand, the one that is still clutching the pen, before setting his pen to the paper. He tries to remember what he learned in prepatory school about poems.

_ An Introduction _

_By Sherlock Holmes_

_I was alone until I met a man_  
_His name was John and he was a fan_

Sherlock surprises himself by laughing, expelling the only sound in the flat. That was horrid, absolutely horrid. He couldn’t continue writing like that. He sees ripping the paper out as a waste, though, and he doesn’t want to hear the sharp noise, so he turns to the next page, pulling his knees up to his chest to better write on his lap, bending back the journal cover and therefore ruining the spine, but giving him a clearer view.

 _mary shot me like she didn’t_  
_she doesn’t_  
_care does he care_  
_does he care does he_  
_wonder. wonder i wonder_  
_how did we get so bad_  
_and are we ever going to come back._

The punctuation is all wrong. The structure is all wrong and completely inconsistent. The poem makes no sense. He flips the page.

_an introduction_

_i’m sorry_  
_i’m waiting_  
_i’m drinking tea in your mug_  
_i’m running my hand through my hair_  
_i’m alright right now_  
_i’m better_  
_i’m attending a dinner party where the host pressed her lipstick mouth against my cheek_  
_i’m thinking_  
_i’m never going to stop thinking_  
_i’m calling you but you aren’t going to pick up_  
_i’m wasting my phone’s money_  
_i’m waiting_  
_i’m smoking until my words are just foggy figments in the air_  
_i’m muttering curses through my teeth_  
_i’m touching my body and pretending you’re touching my body_  
_i’m waiting_  
_i’m wishing_  
_i’m thinking how this would’ve been if i didn’t say_  
_i’m faking, as i never was_  
_i’m waiting_  
_i’m listening to my mind call me a fool_  
_i’m waiting_  
_i’m wasting_  
_i’m okay with ends_

Garbage. Sherlock flips another page. Perhaps he should start with a sensory detail.

_grey cell._

Well that rounded about quickly.

 _grey cell. white walls._  
_little clay houses set across_  
_a periwinkle spread._  
_your fingers braced_  
_against my shoulders._  
_i’m a lifeline drifting_  
_between fake wine and flatline._  
_and your mouth is warm_  
_while your soul is the tea_  
_in that pot_  
_that no one ever drinks from_

He doesn’t want to think about it. Sherlock underhand throws the book towards John’s chair. It rests at its feet like a faithful dog. He flounces over to the sofa and settles into a painful sleep.

He never titles the poem. Unlike the other ones, it is not a beginning.

 

* * *

 

John has to knock at the door to the flat now. It’s a new rule, unspoken but still very much existent. It’s early morning when Sherlock swings open the door and stares at his friend in front of him.

“You’re late,” he says, and John grins. Sherlock yawns and rubs one fist over his left eye. “I’m going to take a shower. Tea?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he disappears to the bathroom. When he returns, John is sitting in his chair. The journal, which is starting to become worn, sits open in his lap, on his beige trousers.

“Oh - “ Sherlock starts, but John interrupts him.

“ _it’s a shadow of something_  
_the rippling of a blue pool_  
_grabbing me, grabbing him_  
_by the neck. soldier saviour,_  
_save me from myself,_  
_save me from the one who thinks of you_  
_at the most undesirable times._ ”

“You don’t have to read it out _loud_ ,” Sherlock murmurs, as a pink flush fans over his neck and cheeks. He tilts his head downward to avoid John’s astonished stare, before perking his ears to hear the rest of him. John has flipped forward to the twentieth poem, the last one he’s written. He’s scrawled at least one everyday when he wakes up from sleep at 3 AM.

“ _but only the fallen admit_  
_they are falling. only the_  
_besotted whimper for their_  
_lost lovers. only the greatest minds_  
_worry not if they are_  
_thinking correctly, but if_  
_they will be understood. only the_  
_crevices of space_  
_understand why a genius would_  
_expose himself to cigarettes._  
_to feel the burn_  
_and praise_  
_of harsh light._ ”

There’s a dark look in John’s eyes as he flicks them up at Sherlock from the journal, but they are sparkling. His mouth is open in amused shock. The detective has little time to think about what this means before John sets the book down on his chair and his deft fingers make their way of unknotting Sherlock’s dressing gown.

He begins mouthing at Sherlock’s collarbone, with a whisper of teeth and a touch of his tongue. Sherlock shifts from one foot to another in agitated pleasure before leaning his head back and hooking his thumbs into John’s belt loops. John’s mouth makes its way up behind Sherlock’s ear. He circles its curve with his tongue, and Sherlock hisses. Should he say something? John’s wedding ring is biting into the still clothed skin at his back.

Their lips meet in a clash of tongues and teeth. Sherlock is trying to bite at John’s lower lip and John is trying to thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s awaiting mouth. Sherlock feels thoroughly exposed and open and ready. John moves his mouth down and bites at Sherlock’s left nipple, and a surge of pleasure flashes through him.

“I don’t - don’t understand.” John has fallen to his knees and pulled open the dressing gown to expose Sherlock’s pants. He licks at Sherlock’s cock beneath the fabric, leaking pre-cum under all of the attention being lavished on it. John looks up at Sherlock underneath his dark blonde eyelashes, pupils blown and teasing his bottom lip between his teeth, red and raw.

“You should get that on a T-shirt,” he teases, before pulling Sherlock’s pants down and almost deepthroating him. And that is that, for the rest of the morning anyway.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft is in the middle of reading the June section of Sherlock’s journal when he notices the changes. (No, Sherlock was not meticulous enough to dictate specific monthly sections, but the last time he bought jam was in June, according to Mycroft’s CCTV cameras, and there are smudges of it on the bottom right corners of the pages.) He struggles to utilize his own literary knowledge on alliteration and defines Sherlock’s emotions at this point in time as angry, alarmed, and ashamed.

Angry:

 _you’ve got me rising into fire_  
_wondering how you could be_  
_cruel how you are such a waste_  
_i wish you were DEAD so you didn’t_  
_HURT ANY OF US they always said_  
_I’M THE ONE I RUIN IT ALL_  
_WELL LOOK AT YOU_  
_AND WHAT YOU DID_

Alarmed:

 _the words. are like stolen catches_  
_of moonlight through the blinds_  
_that highlight your contours. i_  
_wish it wasn’t night. i didn’t_  
_know that it could all_  
_be like this. that i could_  
_feel like this. drowning and downing_  
_this emptiness. a man at the bottom_  
_of the ditch with no air._

Ashamed:

 _tell me not to talk so i_  
_don’t ruin the suburbia_  
_and i apologize with idiocy_  
_this is all_  
_my fault_

None of the poems are titled.

 

* * *

 

“I love you.”

Ironically, they’d been drinking tea. It was a June day, quite breezy, and all of the windows in the flat were open. A soft wind was teasing at their hair and trailing its fingers across the back of Sherlock’s neck. They had just frotted against each other, and now were bathing in the post-coital glow. Sherlock didn't really care for the sex, the rushed fumbling and the loss of words. But it was for John, and he'd always do anything for John.

John slows his sipping. He swallows, and sets the cup down on the table beside him. Sherlock stops looking at his hands and looks up at John. He’s not saying anything. Nobody is saying anything.

“Is this what you thought this was?”

He wants to answer  _no_. The most troubling thing is that he can't.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is peering into his microscope at the centre of the kitchen table, mostly cleared of its various collections of papers and science equipment. Something about mold spores, apparently, but Mycroft isn’t really paying attention. He’s concerned for his brother. Nothing new there, really, but Sherlock finally has an unspoken answer to his question on this December afternoon. He knows that Mycroft snagged his journal when he went to Germany for a government-requested case. He knows that Mycroft's pudgy fingers have smudged his oil and grease all over the cover of the book that he now admits is dear to him.

He's not shy about what he likes anymore. That barrier was broken and now everything is flooding out of him. There's emotion in everything he does now. Passion in the science experiments, excitement in all of the cases he takes, even sympathy for the people who possess the problems he won't solve. He'll be better. It'll just take time, but he'll be better. He always is.

John took him apart. But he put himself back together again.

“My.”

Mycroft’s protective rambling is put to an abrupt hold. He blinks quickly in surprise. “What did you just call me? You haven’t called me that since-“

“Read the journal.”

It’s not in John’s chair, which is currently being inhabited by a towering stack of science journals, but tucked into Sherlock’s.

One of the pages is dog-eared, the top right corner folded down by Sherlock’s shaking fingers, shaking because he _found_ it, he found the answer to the unspoken question.

“ _a conclusion_

s. grise

 _they say all good things_  
_come to an end. you are not_  
_at an end. i am at_  
_a beginning. free of your_  
_rough hands and smell of_  
_mint in the morning. i am at_  
_a beginning. ravished only by_  
_the night sky. the only_  
_sweet nothings i want_  
_to hear_  
_are the bumblings of bees_  
_outside my windows._  
_i have finally found the answer._  
_i have died._  
_this is my_  
_conclusion._ ”

Mycroft cannot be worried anymore.

This is the conclusion.

 

 


End file.
